Sanguinary Silence
by usakiwigirl
Summary: Honestly. For a man who didn't say a whole lot, he truly managed to plant his foot firmly in his mouth when it was open.
1. Beaten, Not Eaten

**_This is a continuation of sorts from my story Maelstrom. It is from alternating POV's again, starting with Ianto._**

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><p><em>'It was Lisa.'<em>

Good lord, what the hell was he thinking? Of all the stupid, irrational, impulsive things to say. Rub it in their faces, why didn't he? Just call them a bunch of murdering fucks and be done with it. Honestly. For a man who didn't say a whole lot, he truly managed to plant his foot firmly in his mouth when it was open.

The look on Jack's face. It was furious. No, not furious. More like disappointment. Yeah. Well, he couldn't really blame him. He was disappointed in himself. For saying what he did - and lying, to boot.

"Ianto. We're back." Jack. He didn't sound upset, not anymore. Not about the words, anyway. He knew Jack was still more than a little pissed about the villagers. He was too, for slightly different reasons. Jack wasn't the one with the bloody great meat cleaver to his neck.

He looked around the SUV. It was empty. He didn't remember stopping. Must have been asleep.

"The others?"

"Home. You were out cold when we stopped."

"What about the gear?"

"Trust you to be worried about that. I'll take care of it when I get back to the Hub. I just want to get you inside, settled."

He groaned as he tried to slide out of the back seat. Jesus, he hurt. Physical pain the likes of which he'd never felt before. Canary Wharf hadn't left him this battered, and even when he played rugby in school, he never came out of a game this bruised and bloody. Sore, yes, but he could still move somewhat easily. Not now, though. He imagined it was how a piece of steak would feel after being tenderized. Imagine that.

According to both Owen and the local paramedics, nothing was broken. His ribs might be on fire, but it was severe bruising only. His head hurt too, but Owen ruled out concussion. Rest, relaxation and pain meds would see him right. In a week. Definitely not tomorrow. Owen's orders, overriding anything Jack might say, meant that he would at least have the chance to sleep in. Recover slowly. No work for a week, light duty for at least one more. Good. Let the others - well, not Gwen, she had a gut shot to heal. Owen and Tosh, then. Let them do a little of the heavy work. Feed Myfanwy, the Weevils. Clear up the rubbish. To be fair, Tosh did her part to keep the Hub proper tidy. It was Owen who was the biggest mess-maker. Bastard did it on purpose. Couldn't fault his medical skills, however. Just his cleanliness. Which was somewhat disturbing for a doctor.

Jack's hand reached in and grabbed his arm. He didn't tug, just provided support so that he could turn his body and carefully stand. It probably wasn't even that necessary, but he wasn't one to turn down help. Well, he was. But not this time. Even he was able to recognise that his body needed a helping hand.

He grunted his thanks, then straightened slowly. The muscles in his back and legs slowly stretched out, having tightened considerably during the return trip. He took a tentative step, staggered, and reached out blindly to grab hold of anything. His fingers found Jack's coat, convulsing around the material tightly. Jack quickly moved closer, wrapping an arm with care around his waist. He allowed himself the luxury of leaning close, breathing deep the intoxicating smell that Jack exuded. It was the closest they'd been since Lisa. He didn't realise just how much he missed the contact.

"Come on. I'll help you get settled. You need a hot bath, something to eat."

"'M not an invalid, Jack. I can manage that."

"Humour me, okay? You look like shit. Let me take care of you."

He snorted. Jack was such a smooth talker. But the thought was nice. Having somebody take care of him for once was a novel feeling.

Jack led him up the path to the flat, reaching into his own pocket for keys. He raised an eyebrow at that; he'd forgotten that Jack still possessed the damn things. After Lisa - and the subsequent mess - Jack was often in and out of his little flat. At first to brow-beat him into moving, then to talk quietly. One memorable, and brutally painful occasion swam into his mind. The afternoon where Jack found him wrapped around his toilet, after realising that his desire for the other man was greater than any he'd felt for Lisa. The shock of it had thrown him into a tailspin of nausea and self-recriminations. When Jack found him, he'd pounced, desperate to feel something. Jack pushed him away, shooting down any chance of rekindling their previous activities. Even now, the words burned._ 'I don't want you, Jones. Not anymore.'_

He shook off the memory. It didn't do to dwell on the past. And he and Jack were slowly rebuilding their relationship. Not to any physical levels - that might never happen. But at least to a point where he knew that Jack trusted him. The fact that he dragged him out with the team was testament to that. Or it could have been that he didn't trust him at all, and wasn't keen on leaving him alone in the Hub. He decided he'd rather not know for certain. The truth was just possibly too awful to contemplate.

Jack carefully steered him into the small flat. He leaned on the wall while Jack shucked his coat, even snorting quietly as he watched him hang it carefully on a hook. His amusement grew as Jack bent over and quickly removed his boots. Jack looked up at him as he handled the laces.

"What? They're dirty!"

"Since when have you cared about that? I seem to remember you traipsing in and out of here with no regard to the state of my floors in the past."

Jack flushed. "I had other things on my mind. Like making sure you were still alive."

He winced, acknowledging the truth of that statement.

"Now, about that bath - because we could just stand here and rehash the good old days, but I think you're about to fall over. I wasn't joking before, you really do look like shit."

"You have such a sweet tongue, Jack. Surprised they aren't lining up around the corner for you."

"And how do you know they aren't?" Jack's grin was positively lecherous. It felt good to have some of their old banter back, yet a part of him felt empty. The innuendos and flirting between them really didn't exist anymore and he missed it. He missed Jack.

"Well, as long as you aren't planning on parading them in here, they can line up wherever the hell they want." He pushed off the wall and staggered down the short hall to the bathroom, leaving his hand out to keep himself upright. He could feel Jack right behind him, ready to catch him if he should fall. Despite everything, the thought that Jack would be there for him left a warm glow.

The bathroom was too small for them both, yet somehow they managed. Jack pushed him down onto the toilet seat, then leaned over him and set up the bath. Once again, he took the opportunity to breath in Jack's scent. Intoxicating. Just as well he was beaten to a pulp, otherwise he might find himself repeating his disastrous attempt to attack Jack. Jack either didn't remember, or was doing a bloody good impression of not remembering or caring.

"Okay. While the water is running, why don't you get your kit off." Jack stood and looked down at him. He looked nothing but concerned. The possibility of a naked Ianto in front of him didn't appear to affect him at all.

He thought for a moment of asking Jack to leave, then shrugged mentally and started to take off his jacket. Well, he tried. As soon as he pushed it back off his shoulders, his arms protested and his ribs screamed.

"Ow, ow, fuck, ow." He struggled to free himself without making it hurt more, then Jack was there, holding him still and pulling one arm at a time out. He felt like an infant being undressed. Although it did make it easier to think of it like that, as opposed to the best looking man he'd ever seen undressing him in front of the bath, fantasies of taking him running hot through his mind.

Jack slowly pulled him up, sliding the shirt off his shoulders and dropping it to the floor. He lifted the t-shirt he was wearing underneath carefully, manoeuvring each arm individually over his head so he could slide them through the material, then putting them back down at his side. He supposed he looked bloody ridiculous, with a bunched up t-shirt around his neck, but then Jack simply lifted it up and tossed it behind him. He was thinking of wrapping his arms around his body, some deep-seated desire to cover himself making its way to the fore, when Jack hissed quietly. A gentle hand pressed against his ribs, fingers spread over half his chest. He sucked in a deep breath. Fuck, that really hurt. And felt nice.

"Jesus, Ianto. Owen - and Tosh - said you were beaten pretty badly, but this is-"

"Not as bad as it looks. They're not broken, just severely bruised. According to Owen."

"You sure?"

He snorted. Seemed to be the sound of the day for him. "No, I'm not sure. He is. And so were the local paramedics. That's why they're the medical practitioners, not me."

"Still. I could take you to the local A&E if you want? X-rays?"

"What, now? Half naked? No, Jack, just help me get into the bath, yeah? The hot water is calling."

Jack huffed out a sigh, then dropped his hands from his chest to his belt. Until that moment, he wasn't even aware that Jack was still touching him. On his chest. His bare skin. For the first time in months. Hell. He could feel himself flushing, but hoped that if Jack looked up, he'd put it down to the hot water and steam.

Jack made short work of his belt and jeans. Well, stood to reason; the man had more than enough practice in divesting others from their clothing. He knew this from personal experience. He noticed that Jack's colour was a little high on his cheeks as he bent down to lift his feet. It could have been because he was tipped over, or the steam in the small bathroom, but Ianto rather fancied it was because he was face to groin, his nose almost pressed against his cock. Part of him wanted to push forward, to _be_ forward, and make Jack notice what he was up against. Or could be up against. A larger, more rational - and hurt - part of him knew that this simply wasn't the time. Even if Jack did make a move, which wasn't at all likely, despite the colour in his face, he was just not capable of reciprocating. Not at that moment. Sure, Jack could push him back down and suck him off - and wouldn't that be fantastic - but the thought of his muscles tightening in orgasm actually sent a wave of pain coursing through his body, killing any fledgling erection before it could even manifest.

He groaned. He was truly fucked up, both physically and mentally. Not even three months ago, his life was turned upside down - again. The girl he thought he was saving - his life, his love, his everything - turned out to be nothing more than a murdering, rampaging robot, intent on converting the world to more of the same. He both hated Jack and, dare he even think it, loved him, for doing what he couldn't. For killing her before anybody else was hurt. Other than the two she'd already murdered. That he'd let her murder. Even unknowingly, it was still his fault. He'd let them in, led them right to her. Hell, she'd even killed Jack.

Jack still didn't know that he knew. He'd told them all that it was just a jolt - that it looked worse than it actually was - but he knew better. He knew for a fact that he himself died, when she threw him across the Hub. He knew that Jack brought him back - how, was the only thing he didn't know. What was it he said to Carys, all those months ago? Excess of life? Something like that.

His thoughts still whirling - when didn't they if Jack was anywhere close - he lifted his feet and stepped out of his shoes, socks and jeans, obeying Jack's wordless instructions. As soon as he was completely naked, he grabbed Jack on one arm, and put the other out against the wall. This was the tricky part - stepping over the lip of the tub and into the hot water. It would be very easy to slip and crack his skull properly, to finish the job the bastards in the Beacons started.

The heat on his feet was almost too much. He could see his pale skin slowly turn red, yet there was no way he'd be adding any cold. He knew that his back and chest would love every minute soaking in the warmth. He slowly lowered his body with Jack's help, then winced as his arse broke the surface. His back might like this, but his cock wasn't too keen. It was a good thing he'd never be a father - he was cooking his little soldiers. Still, he knew he'd appreciate it, as soon as his bits stopped screaming.

Jack helped him lean back against the sloping edge of the tub, wincing along with him as he moaned. He let go as soon as he sighed and relaxed.

"Good? Need anything else?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Jesus, this feels bloody fantastic."

"Not too hot?"

"Bit late to ask, now that I'm all the way in. No, Jack, it's fine. I'll never have kids, but hey, with my job that's not a bad thing."

His eyes were closed, so he missed Jack's pained face at this. "I'll leave you to it, then."

"What? You're leaving me to get out of here by myself?" His eyes flew open in shock. Definitely just shock, not dismay or anything like it.

"Christ, no! I was just going to make coffee - or tea if you want? I thought you'd like the privacy, and, ah… You can call me when you need help getting out. I'll just be in the lounge."

He relaxed again. Jack wasn't leaving, not yet. This was good. He thought quickly - what would he rather drink? Coffee would be his usual choice, but he drank it straight black and the heat, along with the hot bath, would likely make him pass out. He tended to avoid tea, as it was Lisa's favourite drink, and anything that reminded him of her hurt too damn much, but he'd been trying, and just then, milky tea sounded absolutely marvellous.

"Tea, thanks. Lots of milk, no sugar." He opened his eyes one more time, looking up at Jack. The man did not look at all comfortable staring down at him. He was starting to reach a point where he really didn't care; he was warm, fairly relaxed and in danger of falling asleep in the bath.

Jack stepped out of the bathroom, looking extremely relieved to be moving away. "Great. I'll be back in a few with the drink and some pain meds. Just call if you need anything before then." And he was gone. Just like that, just like before. Gone before he had a chance to really read him, or to say anything. Not that he would. It wasn't his place. The betrayal was all him, so the rebuilding of trust was his burden, leaving Jack to make the call as to whether he'd completed the job.

He sighed. He needed Jack, both now and always. But his failure during Gwen's game, and then when held at knifepoint - well, he was fully aware it wasn't good. There was a very real chance he'd wiped out any trust they'd regained, hurt Jack in the process and ruined his chances of getting back any sort of relationship with Jack.

He was just too hurt right now to do anything about it.


	2. Cannibal Mind

**_Jack's POV. Not sure I mentioned this before, but this follows on from Maelstrom. Also, many thanks to all those who review, both this and the other. Some of you, I cannot answer - settings and all that. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate everything._**

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><p>Jesus. Once again, he was a failure as a leader. He honestly didn't see any of this coming. There was no way on this planet, or any other, that he'd have risked his team if he'd known what was out there. Because truly, who would have guessed that the disappearances weren't alien related, but human? Cannibals, for fucks' sake. In the 21st Century. It shouldn't be possible, yet the proof was right in front of his eyes. Hell, one of their prospective meals was currently soaking his aches and pains not twenty feet from him.<p>

He remembered his old Earth history classes from the Time Agency. Cannibalism was extensively practised in many cultures over the centuries. The Maori of New Zealand were known for it, having eaten 66 passengers and crew from a ship called the Boyd in 1809, and also a good proportion of 2000 men killed in battle in 1821, until the smell of decay forced them from the field. It was documented fact. There were cases of people in stressful situations forced to eat their compatriots simply to survive – the rugby team that crashed in the Andes in the 1970's, for example. Months in the mountains with nothing to eat but their dead. It was, quite literally, a worldwide phenomenon at various times in history, either in Europe, the Pacific, the Americas – if he was to name a region, at some point there was more than likely documented evidence. Or at least a very strong suspicion. And that was just the history of the times before now – he didn't want to contemplate the atrocities of the settlers to various outworlds in future centuries. Of course, starvation and disease did have a hand in most of those situations.

But then you had the sick fuckers, like Jeffrey Dahmer or Albert Fish. Andrei Chikatilo or Armin Meiwes. Or the residents of the sleepy Welsh village of Brynblaedd. And yeah, cannibalism wasn't listed as an official mental disorder, but still. Insanity had to play a part. Because only an insane, sick fuck would lure in tourists, kill them and potentially serve them up in roadside pies. Which reminded him, he needed to have the meat at that abandoned stand tested. And have Owen check them all for hepatitis – or was it herpes? Whatever the hell it was Tosh mentioned. Well, he'd have Owen check the others. With his peculiar condition, and the fact he was from the far future, he wasn't likely to contract anything nasty.

Fuck. He wanted to go back out to that village and finish what he'd started. Put a bullet through each of their brains. No, not their brains, too quick – through their gut, and then stand back and watch them bleed. This just pushed all of his buttons, the ones he thought long buried. Eradicated by the Doctor and Rose, purged from his system. He wasn't a murdering bastard, not anymore, but this… This was wrong. What they did to those innocents was wrong. What they tried to do to his team was wrong. What they almost accomplished with Ianto was wrong.

Poor Ianto. He'd only wanted to get him out of the Hub. Let him see sunlight, for one thing, and to feel part of the team. Of course, he'd ruined an innocent – although very childish – game of 'last snog'. Gwen's heart was in the right place, but for the supposed human one, she could sometimes be a bit dense. She had to have known that Owen would say something. Only naiveté would have her thinking anything other. The look on Tosh's face; he could feel how rejected she felt. It was why he'd answered as he had, asking about non-human life forms. He wanted to save her some pain, inject a little humour into the situation. He wasn't about to out Ianto in front of them all. Because Ianto Jones was his last kiss.

And he could see why Ianto didn't mention him, he really could – giving Owen more ammunition when their relationship was strained to the breaking point already probably wasn't a good idea. But why did he have to say Lisa? He could have made up anything, or simply not said a word. He doubted the others would even have cared if he'd not joined in. The poor man was still sitting in the background, hardly noticed by the rest of them. Of course, that was Ianto's choice. He'd watched the others try and bring him out, push him forward, but only Tosh had any success. It was obvious that Ianto still felt he needed to pay some sort of penance.

He didn't, though. He forgave him. He wanted Ianto to be a bigger part of the team, to take on more responsibility than the general support he was already providing. He knew the man was capable of so much more. The fact that he'd managed to keep a partially converted Cyberman in the Hub for six months was proof positive. That sort of dedication took intelligence and patience. All while keeping up with his duties around the Hub.

Although, now that he thought on it, he wasn't at all sure he'd told Ianto he was forgiven. He knew he felt it in his heart, but had he actually said the words? Had he told Ianto to his face that he believed in him, in his work and abilities – that he didn't need to serve penance any longer. All was forgiven. Shit. That was something he needed to rectify. Yet more proof he was useless as a leader. Details. Hell, Ianto was better with them than he would ever be. And he looked damn fine as he managed those details.

He groaned. Yeah, Ianto did look fine. He'd put on just a little weight over the last couple of months, and wasn't looking quite as sickly. He smiled on occasion. He'd even heard the man laugh once or twice. Sounds he'd not heard since before that awful night. He wanted to hear them now, but about all Ianto could manage was 'ow'.

He moved into the kitchen. He was supposed to be making tea for Ianto. Although the idea of walking back into the bathroom while Ianto was naked wasn't sitting too well. Not because he couldn't handle looking at a naked man – on the contrary, Ianto naked was a sight to behold. It was more that he wasn't sure he could restrain himself. He knew he had to, however. Ianto was in no condition to participate in anything athletic, and he probably wasn't even interested. After all, he'd turned him down last time Ianto tried to start something. And even though he'd made sure to tell Ianto he'd lied about not wanting him, Ianto had since made no other moves. Not even mild flirting.

And just now, as he'd stripped Ianto of his clothing – his body showed no reaction at all, even though Jack was mere inches from his cock. It took all of his restraint not to lean forward, to _be_ forward. He could quite easily have settled Ianto back onto the lid of the toilet and sucked him dry. The man wouldn't even have to do anything. Just lay back and think of Wales.

This was not good. He still wanted him, so much it hurt. He was feeling the pain even now – his cock was hard as iron, pushing uncomfortably against his zipper. He'd tried, so damn hard, not to let it show in front of Ianto, but ultimately it was why he'd had to leave him to bathe in peace. He couldn't sit in the bathroom and watch all that gorgeous skin turn pink and flushed, and not reach out for a handful.

He reached down, grabbing hold of himself through his trousers and squeezing, hard. Fresh pain ran though him, this time not of the I-need-to-come-now variety. This felt more like he'd been kicked in the balls with steel-toed boots. Brutal, but necessary.

He wasn't ruling out anything in the future with Ianto. He just knew that now was not the time to rekindle their 'whatever'. The trust might be back, at least for him, but Ianto was clearly still suffering guilt over his part in the near-destruction of the world. He honestly just didn't think Ianto was ready for it. The man couldn't even stand to touch him, for god's sake. He was always careful to keep his fingers well out of the way when handing over drinks. And the hiss as he touched him while taking off his t-shirt and checking the bruises - he wasn't stupid, he knew when somebody was pulling away from his touch. Ianto clearly wasn't willing to start anything.

Although he had wondered for a bit – the deep breath in as he'd leaned over him to turn on the water. It was possible that Ianto was taking in a lungful of his pheromones. Of course, it could also have been Ianto trying to move out of the way and finding it painful. Ianto had turned a little pink as he'd bent over to loosen his shoes – coincidentally coming nose to groin with his cock - but he knew that had to be from the steam and heat in the tiny space.

No, it was clear that Ianto didn't want him – might possibly never want him again. Their relationship at the moment was just too fragile to push for anything further.

Instead, he needed to concentrate on helping Ianto heal from his wounds and contusions. His mind was bound to be distressed after this encounter. As if he needed anything more traumatic happening to him.

He snorted; yeah, some leader. He recruits a fucked-up doctor, hell-bent on self-destruction; a tech genius with self-esteem issues; a PTSD-suffering general support officer, who couldn't seem to avoid being beaten over and over again, and a new field agent with a propensity to be taken hostage and/or wounded. At this rate, he'd be lucky to keep any of them alive for another month.

He looked down at the counter, noticing that he'd actually managed to make that cup of tea for Ianto without actually being aware of what he was doing. He had no recollection of boiling the water, or steeping the tea – hell, he didn't even remember going to the fridge for milk. Which, as he looked at the carton on the counter, was damn close to its use-by date. He'd head out and pick up some more for Ianto as soon as he had him settled in bed.

And that brought up the whole issue of being near him while he was naked again. So not good. He'd be all pink, and glistening with sweat – and covered in bruises and looking like shit. He had to remember that. Keep it at the front of his mind while helping the poor man dry and dress.

He picked up the cup of tea and headed back toward the bathroom, stopping at the small cupboard where Ianto kept his paracetamol. He could do this, the physical helping of Ianto. He was strong – he'd desired others before and not acted on it. Ianto was no different, he just had to keep his mind on the job at hand. As opposed to putting his hand out for the job, so to speak. He could dry, dress and settle Ianto Jones and not make one inappropriate comment, or make an unwanted advance.

He just hoped that his body would listen and obey his mind.


	3. Desert, Dessert

_**Ianto's POV. I'm no medico. I have no idea if what is described herein is actually possible given the circumstances. Chalk it up to creative licence if I'm way off base.**_

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><p>Jack was gone. Well, not gone, exactly, but no longer in the small room. Breathing his air, taking up space – leaving his unique smell to hang in the moist atmosphere. God, it was intoxicating. Like nothing on this earth, yet a combination of so many things he loved; coffee, chocolate, cinnamon, sandalwood, to name a few. Broken down, the individual components didn't seem at all to work together, yet as a whole, more effective than any aftershave – or drug. He hadn't been lying when he told Jack they should be lining up around the corner. Only not to hear him speak. Simply to catch a whiff. Jesus, he'd be a rich bastard if he could bottle it. Lagerfeld, Halston, Calvin Klein – none of them stood a chance.<p>

Then again, it could just be him. He didn't notice Tosh or Owen falling over themselves to breathe in Jack's scent. Gwen was a bit of a different story, although her particular obsession was more with Jack's hero complex than his personal hygiene. She damn-near worshipped the ground he walked on. Obviously, she didn't know Jack as well as she ought.

Except he'd been downright heroic today. Riding in on a bloody tractor, of all things, firing off bullets with indiscriminate ease. If it wasn't for the fact he'd been down on the floor with a fucking meat cleaver cutting into his neck, waiting to be bled, he'd have stood by and cheered. Admired every move Jack made, for they were all such exquisite perfection. Instead, he'd dropped flat, and curled himself into a pain-filled ball, desperate to close out the world. The chance of dying was just a little too close to home for comfort, not to mention the smell of blood and meat reminded him far too much of Canary Wharf.

And now… now that the adrenaline was gone, and his body could finally relax, all he wanted was to be close to the other man. He hadn't been touched in any way other than anger for so long. He missed the comfort of a loving hand. He missed Jack. He'd long since reconciled himself to the fact that he craved Jack's touch more than he ever did Lisa's – now he just needed to have Jack reach out. Because he didn't think it was right to push himself forward. Not after the last disaster.

He let his mind drift back to earlier, dare he say, happier times. Even though Lisa was still a factor, lying on a metal bed deep beneath the Hub, he'd been happy with Jack. He should have known it then, acknowledged the truth and just turned off the machinery. It would have been a kindness to all, and he wouldn't be in such a predicament now. Wanting Jack, and not able to act on it. Not knowing if the other was prepared to start again. And not willing to take the risk for fear of rejection.

His eyes closed, he drifted into a light doze. He could see Jack lying on his bunk, naked and glorious. See him leaning back against his desk, hips thrust forward and an unmistakeable gleam in his eye. He could feel himself grow hard as he stared his fill. Feel Jack's hands on his shoulders, gently shaking him. Hold on - why was he touching his arms, when he was all the way across the room, or spread out on his bed? He shouldn't be able to reach that far.

He jerked upright, suddenly cognizant that Jack truly was holding his shoulders. He struggled against the hold and the pain, trying to look down at his lap. He hoped to Christ he wasn't as hard as he thought he was. Thankfully, it seemed all was in order – he must have just dreamed his erection. Either that, or it wilted as soon as he became aware of his surroundings. He prayed it was the first.

"Ianto. Come on, don't fall asleep in the tub. I didn't shoot all those fuckers just so you could drown at home."

He looked at Jack. The man was keeping his gaze averted, but did turn to the counter and pick up a mug and a couple of pills. He passed them over, making sure that he had a firm grip on the handle before letting go.

"Ta." His own voice was low, slightly husky. It could be attributed to the day's stresses, although he knew the truth; it was arousal, pure and simple.

Jack sank down onto the lid of the toilet. "Welcome. You feel better? Ready to make a move?"

He groaned. He was ready to come out – he feared he was starting to resemble a large, pink Welsh prune – but he wasn't at all sure he could actually move. Even the thought of trying to stand made his ribs ache and his heart pound.

"Yeah, suppose. You're going to need to help me up, though. I don't think I can move on my own." Bit galling to have to ask for help, but there was just no way he could do it otherwise.

"'S okay. I knew you'd need the help. Just, here…" he paused as he put out his hand, "give me the cup. I don't want you spilling hot tea on yourself. Or me."

He passed the mug over. It was almost finished, the milk having cooled it sufficiently for him to almost gulp the liquid down with the paracetamol. Still, Jack did have a point. It would be much easier to move if he had both hands free. And he hated the dregs at the bottom. Little black specs of tea leaf, just waiting to land on his tongue and ruin the flavour of a good cuppa.

Jack put the almost empty mug back on the counter, then turned and reached for him. He paused for a moment, looking concerned.

"What?"

"Just trying to decide the best way to do this."

"Hmm. What if I put my hands on the side of the tub and you grab my arm and pull?"

"I suppose. Worth a shot."

He did just that, gripping the side of the tub as if his life depended on it. Jack leaned close and grabbed his arm, wrapping his long fingers around the upper muscle. He tried to push up, while Jack tugged, but a searing bolt of pain through his ribs made him cry out.

"Fuck, ow! Shit, no, no, no. Stop, Jack. That's not going to work. I can't… I can't. It hurts too fucking much."

"Are you sure you're just bruised? 'Cause that sounds like too much pain for that. You must have a cracked rib, maybe two."

"Owen said—"

"Owen isn't infallible, for all he's bloody good at his job. I'm taking you to the hospital—"

"Aw, hell, Jack. Really? Now?"

He could feel Jack's eyes on him, and heard his sigh. "Yeah, now. Boss' prerogative. I should have just done it before."

"Don't, Jack. It was my call. Just help me out of here. If you're that set on taking me, I need to get dressed."

Jack leaned over him in the tub, digging his fingers into the water near his feet. He could feel the sudden suction when the stopper was removed and water started to drain, as Jack put the small rubber plug in the corner. He then turned and put his arms under his armpits, using his upper body strength to lift him free of the water. It wasn't pain free, and he used his extensive repertoire of swear words learned as a teenager to convey his displeasure. As soon as he was standing, hands clenched firmly in Jack's shirt, he took a deep breath. Or rather, attempted to take a deep breath.

"Jesus fucking Christ, I can't breathe. Hurts, oh god, it hurts." His voice was strained, as he panted out the words.

"Shit. This bath might not have been one of my better ideas. I hope I haven't made it worse."

"Shut up, Jack. Just… just help me get dry so I can dress. I think you're right, I think something is broken. Maybe more than one something. Don't know how Owen could have missed it."

"It might not have been broken out there, just cracked. I think it was me, just now. God, I'm so sorry, Ianto."

"Jack, just hand me a towel, yeah? Standing there wringing your hands isn't getting me out of here any faster."

"Right, right, sorry." Jack turned and pulled off the towel slung over the warming bar. He didn't stop to hand it to him, instead starting the process of drying him off carefully. He lifted his arms and briskly rubbed – his arms were remarkably pain free and it actually felt nice to have the firm strokes against his skin. Jack then carefully swiped down his chest, only the once, and as soft as possible. He used one hand to turn him, then repeated the action on his back and sides. He still felt a little damp, but was prepared to put up with that in order to get this over and done.

Jack grabbed the towel in two hands and ran it up and down his legs a couple of times, avoiding the large bruise on his left thigh, and the raw scrape across his right shin. His final move was to swipe across his arse, then he handed the towel over with a pointed nod at his groin.

"I think you can manage that by yourself. I'll go sort out something for you to wear – and no, it won't be a suit." With that, he turned and walked quickly out of the bathroom. He absently ran the towel over his cock, cupping and lifting to reach under to dry his balls. Again, it wasn't pain free, as leaning just slightly to make sure all was dry put too much strain on his ribs. Once finished, he turned towards the door, prepared to head to his room to dress – only he found himself still standing in the tub and not sure if he was at all capable of actually stepping over the edge.

"Jack! Um, a little help, please?" He called out, wincing as the added air to increase his volume put pressure on his chest.

He could hear Jack's quick footsteps heading his way. It was funny – no matter if Jack was wearing his boots on concrete, or socks on carpet, he could always tell where he was. It was as if he was attuned to every move the man made. Although at the moment, it sounded like Jack was running, and a deaf man could probably hear him. He wasn't being light on his feet at all.

He skidded around the corner to the bathroom, coming to an abrupt halt as he caught sight of him standing naked in the tub. "Ianto! You oka… Oh. I thought you, ah – why are you still standing in the tub?"

He looked at Jack with one eyebrow raised. Because, seriously? Did the man not even catalogue that it fucking hurt to move? "Because I wasn't willing to finish the job those bastards started, by falling on my arse. I need a hand to step over the lip."

"Right. Okay." Jack moved forward and held out a hand, then stepped directly to the side of the bath as he just stared at him in disbelief. "Not enough?"

He snorted. Nothing from Jack was ever enough – not information, not answers, and certainly not physical attention. At least, not for him. He grabbed Jack's arm, then the other, so he was held securely as he cautiously lifted his leg over the edge. It wasn't that his legs weren't working, per se, but rather that with his core so damaged, he didn't want to risk over-balancing. There would be no way he could stop himself if he started to fall.

Finally out and upright in front of the toilet, he let go, and looked around for his clothes. "Ta, Jack. Could you…" and then he trailed off, noticing that Jack's hands were empty of clothing.

"I dropped them on your bed when you called out. I thought you'd fallen. Hang on, I'll go get them."

"No. No, just give me a hand to the bedroom. No sense in making multiple trips."

"Ianto, I don't think—"

"Christ's sake, Jack, you've seen me naked before. Just get out of my way if this is too much." He made to push past, irritated and shamed all at once. Was he that repugnant to the other man, now? God, he really had ruined any chance for anything deeper.

"It's not that!" Jack grabbed his arm, holding tight as he turned around and started walking back down the hall. It was only a few steps, but it felt like a journey of miles. "Seeing you naked is not the problem. Well, actually, it is the problem, but not like you think."

"Jack, you aren't making any sense. What the fuck are you on about now?" He hoped, he really did, but Jack was Jack, and it just wasn't likely to happen. Not now.

"Nothing." Jack led him to his bed, where a pair of grey running sweats and old tartan button-up shirt lay crumpled on the duvet.

"Fuck, no. I'm not wearing that! Jeans and the shirt, yes. T-shirt and the joggers, yes – but not together. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that the sweats were the easiest to help you into, and the shirt is about the only thing you own that won't hurt you to put on." Jack looked just a little pissed, and sounded more so.

"But, Jack! I can't—"

"Yes, you can. Just put the damn clothes on, Ianto. You need to get to the hospital sooner rather than later. I'd rather do it when you're awake and mobile, but I'll knock your arse out if I have to."

Right. He'd heard that tone from Jack before, and it resulted in him running miles while intoxicated. He thought they'd moved beyond that, but it seemed he'd maybe pushed too far. Again.

"Yes, Sir."

"Ianto, don't. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself, for taking you all out there, and putting you all in danger. Putting iyou/i in danger. It wasn't my intention."

"I know that, Jack. Fine, give me a hand, yeah?"

With Jack's help – who was he kidding, Jack did all the work. He merely stood still and followed the silent directions, lifting his feet when tapped and sliding his legs into the soft cotton sweats. Jack slid them quickly up his legs and settled the waist low on his hips. He didn't think Jack placed them there deliberately; it was more that it was the natural spot they sat. It made him blush when he realised that he wasn't wearing any pants underneath, instead swinging freely. It felt nice, sure, but he hoped to god his body behaved, because there'd be no way to hide the evidence if he became aroused. Likewise, he knew he'd need to be careful sitting down, as the danger of pinching things best left un-pinched was all too real.

Jack picked up the shirt and moved to stand a little closer. He flipped the shirt around his body and then dropped it low enough that he could drop his arms into the sleeves without moving too much. The resulting action of Jack pulling the shirt up and around his body meant they were almost chest to chest, with Jack's arms locked around him. He closed his eyes and just enjoyed the moment. Jack's scent, his body, his touch – all of it he stored away in his mind for later. He knew it was all he was likely to get.

Jack stepped back far enough to pull the edges of the shirt together and swiftly fastened the buttons. His hands lingered just a little on Ianto's stomach, smoothing the fabric, then he cleared his throat and dropped his hands.

"You're all set. Let's see about those ribs."

He turned and bent his arm, much like a gentleman would for a lady. Just as he'd done for Lisa, whenever they went out. He hesitated just a bit, then steeled himself and gripped tight.

There would be time to sort out his feelings and issues later. For now, his immediate medical needs were more important.

"Okay, Jack. Let's do this."


	4. Farely Rotten

_**Chapter Four, Jack's POV. Apologies for the delay - I was travelling. Also, if the information about painkillers is incorrect, or could use a little tweaking, let me know. I did what I could with the internet, but I truly don't know much about what is available in the UK, and I am in no way a medical professional.**_

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><p>He looked across the SUV to where Ianto sat. He was reclined slightly, his head tipped towards him, with his eyes closed. His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest, as if holding himself together, although it was probably more reflexive than anything else. He knew that Ianto probably wasn't feeling anything right at that moment, that exhaustion had most likely wiped the agony from his mind, but he couldn't stop his own wince of pain at the picture he painted. The doctors at the nearest A&amp;E were not impressed with Ianto's condition, and threw suspicious glances in his direction as they wheeled him off for x-rays. He knew they were right, too. It was his fault that Ianto was broken. He'd pulled the poor man from his comfortable position in the Hub, and forced him out into the field, into a situation he wasn't trained to deal with.<p>

Sure, Ianto held his own. He was damn proud of his team, all of them, but especially Ianto. Tosh made it a point to give him the full, gory details; of their discovery in the basement, of Ianto's shock at the freezer contents, of his bravery in taking on the villagers to let her get away. He shuddered to think how close he came to losing them all, but especially to losing Ianto. That cleaver was cutting into his neck as he started firing – he could see it, could see the thin, red line as it broke the surface of his skin. He knew Ianto was unhappy with himself, that he thought he could have done more. But he'd seen the look of horror on his face, and knew without a doubt that it was a damn miracle he was walking and talking, as opposed to a catatonic bundle in the corner. He sure as hell didn't blame him for curling up and covering himself when he started firing. He wasn't all too sure he wouldn't have done the same, given Ianto's history.

The diagnosis from the hospital was just about what Jack expected. Ianto definitely had two broken ribs, which were currently wrapped tight. The downside to a rib fracture was the inability to immobilise the torso. All that could be done was protect them as much as possible. The A&E staff concurred with Owen's original diagnosis about Ianto's head, ruling out concussion. Chances were good he would have a headache in the morning, due to the combination of stress, lack of sleep, and the bloody great contusion on his forehead. However, his thick skull prevented any further damage.

The medication prescribed was a hell of a lot stronger than the paracetamol he'd passed him while Ianto was still in the bath. The fact that he had only just ingested the pills meant that he was required to wait another four hours before taking anything else. He knew that Ianto was only holding on because he was asleep. As soon as he stopped the SUV, and woke him up, the pain would return, likely ten-fold. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard – there was still half an hour to go before he could officially pass the narcotic pain meds on to Ianto. Screw it, though. He was only a minute away from Ianto's flat, and he no longer had any intention of leaving after settling him into bed.

He pulled the SUV up outside the flat. He was more than willing to double-park in the middle of the road, or even on the footpath itself, while moving Ianto. Let anybody try and complain – it would give him the perfect excuse to take out his frustrations. However, an open spot was directly opposite the door. Serendipitous, that nobody was using it. And probably better for the general population, in the end.

He turned the key, then twisted his body towards Ianto. He reached out a hesitant hand, trying to decide how best to wake him. Ianto's sleepy voice took the choices away.

"Jack?"

"Shh. We're home. Sit tight, I'll come around and give you a hand."

As he opened the door and climbed out, he could hear Ianto mutter quietly. "Not much choice. Couldn't move if I tried."

This whole situation made him so mad. It was all his fault. In this particular case, even more so. Ianto's ribs most likely hadn't been broken before the bath, just cracked. It was him, pulling him up out of the water, which caused the damage. He was doing his best to finish the job the residents of Brynblaedd started.

He walked around to the passenger side of the SUV, opened the door and reached in. This time, Ianto waited patiently for his help, which was both gratifying and irritating. The man was young, fit – he shouldn't need this sort of help. He held Ianto's arm, and watched him swing his legs out of the high vehicle. Well, at least he wasn't going to have to push himself upright. Just get his feet on the ground and stand. And that was a problem – he could see the strain on Ianto's face as he moved each leg. The problem with injuries to the core – it was impossible to move any other part of the body without it. Still, he knew that Ianto wouldn't want him to fuss too much, so let him move at his own pace. At the current rate, worrying about medicating him too soon would be a moot point.

Eventually, Ianto's feet were both on the ground, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs, the other holding his hand tight enough to cause blood flow issues. He was white around the eyes and lips, signs of the amount on pain he was suffering. He stood slowly, weaving a little until his balance settled. Ianto let himself be moved out of the way of the door, leaning against the SUV gratefully.

As soon as he'd locked up the SUV, arming the multiple deadlocks and alarms that Tosh improved upon, he wrapped one arm protectively – well, possessively, to be honest – around Ianto's waist, leading him slowly up to the flat. He rummaged in a pocket for the keys, then let them both in. This time, he didn't bother with his coat or boots, instead focusing on getting Ianto all the way into the flat and to the bedroom. Better to do it and leave a little mess, than risk Ianto falling over.

As they passed the bathroom, Ianto put out a hand, halting their progress.

"Stop. Need to take a piss." His voice was low, scratchy and quite obviously he was holding back cries of pain.

He led him in, positioning him in front of the toilet. "Need a hand?"

"My ribs are broken, Jack, not my dick. Quite sure I remember how to do this on my own."

He huffed in annoyance. Ianto could be such a stubborn and snarky bastard. "Fine. If you fall on your arse, don't blame me."

"Jack," Ianto reached out his hand, stopping him from leaving the bathroom. "I didn't mean… Just, stay close, yeah? I'm not feeling too steady."

He sighed. He knew that Ianto was just about done in completely, and that he truly hadn't meant anything bad with his words. It was more that he was so frustrated, both with the lack of contact between them, and not being able to do more to help Ianto. It wasn't fair of him to take out his bad mood on Ianto.

He didn't say anything, just stood behind him with a steady hand on his shoulder. He could feel Ianto's body tremble beneath his touch – he needed to get him in to bed immediately, before the man fell over into the loo. It wouldn't do to drown him, or break him further.

Ianto pulled himself together, then turned to face him. His face was flushed. "Could you, um, flush? I can't bend…"

"Sure." He turned him around to face the sink. "You wash your hands."

The sound of the tap running was drowned by the flush of the toilet. He reached around Ianto to wash his own hands, then wrapped his arm around his waist again. He led him out and back towards the bedroom. Only three steps, but he was sure it felt like a marathon run to Ianto. His body was shaking so much by now, it felt like a small earthquake. It was clear he didn't have much left in him.

As he stood Ianto by the bed, he wondered whether to strip him down, or just pull the covers over him fully dressed. Ianto took the decision from him, however, when he started to push the waist of the joggers down his hips.

He took over when it became apparent that Ianto couldn't move them beyond the reach of his hands. As he grabbed the loose fabric and tugged, he remembered that Ianto wasn't wearing underwear. It was his own fault – he'd not bothered with them when helping Ianto dress earlier. He gritted his teeth and leaned down, wanting nothing more than to soothe away the hurt with kisses, yet knowing it was the last thing Ianto needed. The last thing he wanted. The pointed lack of arousal when his face was only inches away was proof positive.

He stood back up and helped Ianto push the shirt back off his shoulders, letting gravity help it on its way to the floor. The white wrapping of the hospital bandage ran from Ianto's waist up to his armpits. If their relationship was stronger, he'd make some comment about impersonating a mummy, but at this moment, he knew Ianto wouldn't appreciate it. Maybe later.

He eased him down to the bed, and picked up his legs to swing them up. He pulled the pillows over from the other side, setting them up in a big pile behind Ianto's head, and then tugged up the duvet. He held him as he lay back, moving the pillows as needed until the strain in Ianto's face receded.

"Good?" He waited for Ianto to nod. He didn't blame the wince that accompanied it. Clearly, he was far from good.

"Let me get some milk – shit, no, it's past the date. Um, water?" Ianto nodded again. "Some bread, too. You can't take this stuff on an empty stomach."

"Whatever, Jack. Not like I'm going anywhere."

There wasn't really anything he could say. Better to just fall back into his usual pattern and say nothing at all. He turned and wandered to the kitchen. The pills the hospital prescribed were in his pocket, weighing him down with the responsibility of doing things right. On top of everything else, he had the potential to fuck this up as well. Sure, the instructions on each little bottle were explicit, as these things went, and he had the full lecture from both the doctors and the pharmacists, but it would be so easy to screw up. To hand over more than the required dose, or to get the timing wrong.

Of course, he wouldn't. He'd been around long enough, and seen enough, to know his way around a pharmaceutical situation. That was why he was so impressed with Ianto – the man actually stopped an idiot doctor from prescribing something that could very well have been disastrous.

The Brufen* he could understand – standard ibuprofen, good for soft tissue swelling, as well as aches and pains, or high temperature. And the Co-dydramol – paracetamol with dihydrocodeine – used to combat mild to moderate pain. It was the OxyContin he didn't get. At first, it seemed the perfect thing – strong, like the Co-dydramol. But as Ianto pointed out to a surprised medico, it was not to be used on those with head injuries. As Ianto had been quite severely beaten about the face, he had to agree. What the hell the doctor was thinking, he didn't know.

As he collected the medication before taking Ianto home, he'd mentioned it quietly to the pharmacist, who just shook his head and muttered under his breath about the incompetency of some so-called professionals. He'd also called Owen to fill him in on Ianto's condition – coincidentally getting a royal bollicking for breaking his patient, and not calling sooner – and double-checked the prescription. Owen was reluctantly impressed with Ianto for catching the error, and not just taking the opiates so he could pass out.

He poured a glass of water, and made a quick cheese sandwich. Ianto did have ham in his fridge – it even smelled good, unlike the milk, which had turned while they were out – but he didn't think meat was high on his menu at the moment. It might never be again. And once more, he wouldn't blame him. What a god-awful way to become vegetarian. Now he'd never be able to get the boy to put some weight on his bones.

Walking back into the bedroom with plate in one hand, and glass of water in the other, he very nearly decided not to hand them over. Ianto was lying with his eyes closed, one hand laid protectively over his ribs and the other palm-up on the bed. He looked completely shattered – and more than a little gorgeous. Once again, Ianto took any decision out of his hands, cracking one eye open as he stood staring.

"Medication doesn't do any good still in the bottle, Jack. Were you planning on handing it over, or just staring all night?" He sounded as exhausted as he looked.

"I thought you were asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

"Thought about it. My ribs are screaming, though. Bit hard to sleep through all that racket."

He put the plate and glass down on the bedside table closest to Ianto, then reached into his pocket for the pills. As his hand closed around the small bottles, it dawned on him that he was still wearing his coat. He put the bottles down beside the food, then shrugged out of the heavy material, laying it carefully on the chair in the corner. He bent over and unlaced his boots quickly, slipping them off and placing them neatly out of the way. He stood up to see Ianto peering at him with narrowed eyes.

"What?"

"That's twice today you've taken your boots off. You okay?"

"Seriously, Ianto, it's not that big a deal."

Well, it was, actually. He wasn't obnoxious and thoughtless on purpose, but he knew he came across that way to some – hell, to a lot – of people. It was more that he was usually in a hurry, or focused on something other than his feet, that prevented him from doing somebody's floor the courtesy of socks. And some days, his socks had holes in them, so he wasn't keen on showing them off, anyway.

He could see the disbelief in Ianto's face, but was extremely glad the other chose not to comment further. At least about that, anyway.

He walked back around the bed and reached for the small bottles. Opening one, he shook out the round, white tablet – Brufen, 800mg, good for eight hours. He handed that to Ianto, then repeated with the other container – Co-dydramol, 500mg paracetamol and 10mg dihydrocodeine tartrate, one every 12 hours. He pulled up his wrist unit and made quick notes, setting alarms for repeat dosages, as from now on until timing lined up again, they'd be administered all over the clock.

He made Ianto eat the sandwich first – or rather, watched him swallow a couple of bites, then drop his hand and grimace.

"Ugh. No more."

"You need the food, Ianto. The ibuprofen isn't good on an empty stomach."

"I know that, Jack. These few bites will do, I'm sure."

"And if you're sick?"

"Then I'll scream like a son-of-a-bitch when I throw up. I just can't stomach eating anything at the moment."

"It's your gut." He shrugged. Wasn't much he could do to force him, short of strapping him down and wrenching his jaw open, then shoving the food in and making him chew. He was a bastard, but not that much of one. "Here, drink this."

Ianto took the proffered water gratefully, then tossed the two pills into his mouth and took a healthy swallow. It was obvious that even that wasn't comfortable, so he just held his hand out for the glass and silently put it back on the small table.

He watched Ianto, as Ianto watched him. He couldn't look away, the stare from Ianto as intense as anything he'd ever seen from him. It unnerved him, while at the same time, turning him on. He wished he knew what the hell Ianto was thinking; was he mad? Curious? Indifferent? Or was he aroused, like him? The dark colour of his eyes hinted at the possibility of it being the last, however there was a better than good chance it was simple exhaustion and drugs.

Feeling quite shaky himself, he broke the contact, moving away to push his coat off the seat of the chair – while making sure it wasn't tossed haphazardly on the floor – and sat down. The minutes ticked by in slow motion, feeling like an eternity happening in a second. Ianto's eyes drooped closed, his mouth opened slightly, and his breathing stopped coming in short, panted gasps. It was evident the medication was finally easing his pain.

He was prepared to spend all night watching him. In fact, was under orders from Owen to do just that, thanks to further injuring him.

What he wasn't prepared for was Ianto to suddenly start speaking, slowly and softly, the words pouring forth in a pained torrent.

All medical information I found at ./aches-and-pains/medicines. I honestly have no idea as to its veracity. I just needed something that looked right, because I honestly have no clue what is available pain-wise in the UK. New Zealand, Australia and the US? I can do that in my sleep! (Sort of.) If there are any issues with these medications, either that I should know about, or need to change, please do contact me.


	5. Talk Soup

_**Well, here it is - the much awaited and pleaded for chapter that has Ianto talking. No hitting, no pushing - there's room for all! And don't shoot the author, LOL.**_

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><p>"Jack."<p>

"Hmmm?"

"Why do you hate me?"

"What? I don't hate you!"

"You hate me. You must. You never touch me anymore. I ruined it, didn't I?"

"Ianto—"

"Because all I want is you. You're all I've wanted for months. Even when Lisa… I just wanted you. I wanted it all to go away and just be you. You're perfect, you know that? Not Gwen-perfect. You're a hero, but not like she thinks. She doesn't see the real you. I do. And I want it back. I miss you, miss the contact. And the sex. Especially the sex. Well, not really. But yeah. I've never felt anything like I do when I'm with you."

"Ianto—"

"And you don't care anymore. You run away. But it's my fault. I know that. I fucked up. I brought her into the Hub, and I let people die and I didn't do anything to stop it. You did. You all did. And then I tried… I just wanted to feel again. Anything. Anything other than the pain and the guilt. And you didn't. You don't. And I've fucked it up again. They almost died because of me. I failed them. I failed you."

"Jesus. Iant—"

"And now you'll never want me again. And I can't blame you. Except that it's so hard to be near you. Every time you get close, all I can smell is you. It's intoxicating. Like a drug. And you make me nervous. I'm never nervous. But my whole body reacts. I get tense, and I shake, and I can't stop it. It's all you, Jack. I want you and I'll never have you again."

He woke feeling slightly mortified, although wasn't sure exactly why. Might have something do with the snake eye Jack was aiming in his direction. Did he say something? Oh Christ, he did. Bloody drugs. Just what the fuck happened while he was high and flying? And why wasn't he still high and flying?

Jack wasn't giving him any clues. Nothing, but a look that could mean anything. Was he angry? Usually he could tell. Jack was an open book, at least for him. Well, when it came to his expressions, anyway. He still didn't know shit about him, other than he apparently had an issue with death. Or rather, with staying dead. And Jack still didn't know he knew that. It wasn't his secret to tell. If Jack chose not to pass on that vital bit of information, that was his business.

Maybe he wasn't angry. Maybe he was thinking. Well, that was fairly stupid. Of course he was thinking. Everybody thought. Couldn't help it, really. Even when you wanted your brain to stop working, it was always off on some tangent. Thinking of tangents, wonder if anybody bothered with the non-human residents of the Hub? Had Myfanwy been fed? Janet? Any of the dozen other creatures and entities they played host to?

And God, why did his ribs hurt so… right. Broken. Not just bruised, like Owen thought. Well and truly fucked up, which meant no field work, or heavy lifting, or anything more strenuous than a cup of coffee and a paper file for the next six weeks. The hospital only gave him enough painkillers for three days. The way his ribs felt right now, it wouldn't be enough. Wasn't enough right from the start, truth be told. Could he persuade Owen to fork over some of the good alien ones? Maybe if he asked Jack to check. No. That wasn't going to work. Jack hated him.

Hold on. Where the fuck did that thought come from? Jack didn't hate him – did he? He didn't think so, not really. Maybe he didn't like him as much as he used to, but he didn't actively hate him. They'd been working on their relationship ever since he returned to work. They were closer – well, they were at a point where they could talk to each other without the threat of violence. That had to mean something. Of course, the only violence he wanted to do to Jack these days was in regard to his clothes – specifically, the ripping of said clothes right off his back.

Ah. Right. It was coming back. Sort of. He thought he'd dreamed it all. Telling Jack he wanted him. Missed him. God, just how much did he say? He peeked at Jack again – no clue there. Jack's expression was unchanged. Still stoic, still silent, still_ still_. Was he going to have to say something himself? Or would it be better to play the amnesia card. Claim the drugs were doing the talking?

Which, of course, they had been. There was no way at all he'd tell Jack how he felt without medical intervention. It was no longer his place. Hell, he couldn't even go near the man, for fear of repeating his disastrous mistake of three months ago. Just these last few hours had tested him to his limits. It might explain how the drugs managed to loosen his tongue so successfully. He knew enough about them to realise there was no way he should have passed out, at least not as quickly as he suspected he did. The Co-dydramol was only supposed to make one mildly drowsy, if at all. It had to be exhaustion and stress. And if pressed, that would be the story he'd stick to like glue. No way would he own up to a severe case of verbal diarrhea.

Only, how was he going to face Jack? He could just plan on denying everything, or at least playing dumb, but still. It wouldn't be easy. If he could read Jack easily, Jack could also return the favour. And he _still_ wasn't giving away any clues. Why didn't he say anything?

Maybe he thought he was still asleep. No. Stupid. Their eyes were locked. Sleeping with his eyes wide open? It was possible – Mica did it all the time. Freaked Rhiannon when she noticed. He remembered Rhiannon doing the same thing – and him having the same reaction. Of course, that could also have been the general disdain shown to an older sister by a bratty younger brother. Not that he was ever a brat. Okay, so he was. A little bastard, actually. Lying, drinking, thieving – lucky he didn't end up in prison or dead. Torchwood and Lisa saved him from that –and then they nearly killed him. Seemed he was still destined to wander off to an early grave. It was just a question of time.

Ugh. Why couldn't his mind focus on one thing? He was all over the map. Must be a psychoanalyst's dream at the moment. Come to think of it, he was more than likely a star catch any given day. He was certainly walking the tightrope of insanity at the moment. His equilibrium was tenuous and his long balance pole broken. A slight breeze from any quarter other than face on, and he was a goner, face first off the wire and splatted all over the ground.

And that wasn't helping, either. Constantly thinking of his impending trip to Providence Park, or the mortuary. Whichever came first. Either of those thoughts would have him sectioned without the time to blink, which would render the destination moot, really. It seemed Providence Park was in his future no matter what.

But whether he went mad, or was killed, he dearly wanted to know what Jack was thinking – and if this time, he'd really buried his foot so damn deep in his mouth, it would take a derrick to remove.


	6. Stewed, So Screwed

_**The penultimate chapter of Sanguinary Silence. Jack's POV.**_

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><p>He really didn't know what to do. He, who was normally never stumped for something to say, couldn't even open his mouth. Ianto's words were playing on continuous loop through his mind, seared into his brain as permanently as any tattoo. Now, all he could do was stare.<p>

Ianto's eyes were fixed to his. He didn't know for sure what he was thinking. His hope was that Ianto didn't remember anything he'd said. His face certainly gave nothing away, save for a slight flush across his cheeks. Although, that could be attributed to the warm duvet pulled up to his chin. He always did get a little overheated under the covers.

And that thought certainly wasn't helping him figure out what to do, knowing just why Ianto was always overheated in bed. It was obviously the drugs that allowed Ianto to speak so freely. The man took reticent to whole new levels. He didn't think it was possible for a person to allow less of himself to be public than what he himself did, but Ianto managed. And now he'd spilled secrets probably long buried and he didn't know what the actual fuck to do about it.

Because what he wanted, and what he should do, were two very different things. He _should_ leave the room, removing temptation from sight and reach, and thereby minimising the chance of hurting Ianto further. What he _wanted_ to do was gather the man into his arms and kiss him senseless. And more.

And it seemed that Ianto would welcome him. But he couldn't. It would be taking advantage of him when so badly injured and medicated. It was the medication issue that truly gave him pause. Because what if Ianto really didn't mean any of it? It didn't seem all that plausible, but it was possible. Wasn't it? Maybe the drugs clouded his mind and he thought he was talking about his dead girlfriend.

Except he'd called him by name – called him Jack, and asked why he hated him. So he probably wasn't talking about Lisa. But there was no way to know for sure without asking – and there was no way in this universe or the next that he was going to do that. The thought alone that Ianto might not actually want him as much as he wanted Ianto, was beyond contemplating.

So he was going to sit here, and just watch. He would put on his best stoic face and give no hint of his inner turmoil. He wouldn't blink, or twitch, or give anything away. He wasn't a master con-artist for nothing. He could do this. Eventually, Ianto would have to fall asleep again– or speak. And he wasn't at all sure which way he was leaning.

He breathed a silent sigh of relief as Ianto's eye's slid closed, although he wasn't sure he was actually asleep. His breathing was still strained – and that was worrying. The hospital had x-rayed, wrapped and medicated the man; he shouldn't still be in this much pain, or struggling to breathe. He checked his watch – it was only an hour since he dosed Ianto with the medications prescribed. Maybe he should call Owen, get his opinion.

Come to think of it, calling Owen was probably a very good idea. He wasn't keen on another bollicking from the medic simply because he waited. Owen was caustic enough on a good day, but if his patients weren't being treated right – even those whom he didn't exactly see eye-to-eye with – then he became a royal bastard.

He watched for five more minutes, just to be sure. He didn't want to leave the room if Ianto was not sleeping. And even if he was, he didn't want to be too far away. It was clear that he was still in pain and could wake at any time. The medication clearly wasn't doing the job.

As soon as he was sure – and he wasn't really, but he couldn't afford to wait any longer – he moved quietly out of the room. He paused at the door, certain he could feel eyes on him, but when he turned his head, Ianto was still in the same position as before. That meant nothing, of course – Ianto was a master at covert surveillance. It was how he was able to anticipate every need in the Hub. He might just have missed him with his eyes open. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. And most likely wouldn't be the last, if he did indeed look.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, tossing it lightly in his hand. Should he call? Yes, of course he should. But what to say? Honesty, obviously. But it needed to be couched in such a way that Owen didn't tear him a new one. That acid tongue was brutal. He dialled.

"Owen."

_"Harkness. Did you kill my patient?"_

"Your faith in me is such a delight. Of course I didn't kill him."

_"Then why the late night call? I don't like you that much that I want to be dragged out of sleep just to chat."_

"You have too high an opinion of yourself."

_"I call it a healthy realism of my charm. Now, what do you want."_

"I'm worried about Ianto. Specifically, the medication. I don't think it's doing the job."

_"Explain."_

"I gave him the Brufen and the Co-dydramol together. He barely slept, it's obvious he's still in a lot of pain."

_"His fucking ribs are broken, Jack. He's not going to be comfortable."_

"I know that, Owen. But he should have slept for longer."

_"Just how long did he sleep?"_

"Maybe only 45 minutes. He was muttering stuff before he woke, too." Not that he would say what Ianto was talking about. That was between them only. "I think he might have gone back to sleep, but knowing him, probably not."

_"Know his sleeping patterns that well, do you?"_

"Fuck off. Can you help, or not."

_"Charming, Harkness. Yeah, I can help. I'll be around in ten."_

The line buzzed, indicating Owen's abrupt termination of the call. This was good. He was on the way, and could give Ianto something for the pain. Maybe check over those ribs. He just wasn't sure all was good. He should have pushed for Ianto to be admitted, or at least held over for further observation. But the stubborn bastard agreed with the doctors and here he was, under-medicated and obviously in severe pain.

Only, what was he to do for the next ten minutes? He could go back in and watch/stare some more. Or he could stay out here, in the living room. Not hiding. A strategic retreat. Saving his sanity from the temptation that was Ianto Jones.

Yeah. And he had a bridge to sell on the Boeshane Peninsula, too, to the first sucker to fall for it.


	7. Well Done

_**This is the last chapter of this story, but not the last story in this 'verse. Which I called **_**Torch-ured_, btw. Did I mention that yet? Might be a bit before the next story goes up, as I have to write a couple more chapters. Don't hurt me! And thanks to all for the lovely reviews. If I've not answered, it's because I couldn't, but I loved each and every one. Ta!_**

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><p>He woke slowly, as if his body was reluctant to claw its way out of whatever depths it currently inhabited. At the same time, he knew it was only a matter of minutes – certainly less than an hour – since he last woke. His fucking ribs… he hurt, so much. But he knew it could be worse. Could have been dead, after all. Served up on some sick fuck's dinner plate as the steak of the day. Maybe soup du jour, as well.<p>

Christ, if the thought didn't make him want to run a sharp point into his brain, he'd puke. Lean over the bed and hurl like it was his god-given right. Hell, he should be sick, heaving his guts as often and as messily as he could. He was almost somebody's _meal_, for fuck's sake. Bled, carved and arranged artistically on a plate. Or maybe not; for all he knew, those bastards could just have sat around the floor and gnawed on his body like the dogs they were.

And he needed to stop this train of thought before it consumed him. Because he could feel the panic closing in and it fucking _hurt_. It was eating him from the inside out – and the irony didn't escape him, that his own body was doing the job the fucking cannibals started. But the only other thought in his mind wasn't making him feel any better.

Jesus fuck, he knew he'd done it this time. Spilling his guts to Jack. That had to be the reason why the man was no longer in the room. They'd spent many long minutes – could have been hours, but probably wasn't – staring each other down when he woke the first time. Finally, he'd closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, only to watch under his lids when Jack finally moved. And it took all his willpower not to call out when Jack walked out of the room. He was leaving – and he couldn't blame him at all. He'd be leaving himself, shame coating his every surface, if he could fucking move. He'd be out the door – even though it was his flat – and long gone. Anything to avoid facing the fucking great elephant he'd dragged in.

He could hear Jack talking. It was only a few steps from his bedroom to the living room, so it wasn't an odd thing, not really. Only, he could hear another voice. Why? Audio hallucinations shouldn't be an issue; he didn't have a concussion, although it might truly explain his lapse in judgement. He didn't ever remember having a case of loose lips in his past. No, wrong. He did spill something fairly embarrassing to Lisa not long after they started dating. He groaned; he should just move to a monastery, one with a vow of silence. That should prevent any further verbal explosions.

A sound at his door – Jack. He stood there, looking all concerned. Something else too, but he wouldn't allow himself to focus on it. He knew it had to be a by-product of his fevered imagination and gut-spilling. Wishful thinking, at best.

"Harkness, move your arse. Else you want me to examine him long distance? I could have done that from the comfort of my bed, you know."

He groaned again. Owen. Fucking lovely. Injured, embarrassed and now irritated. His day couldn't really get any better.

Jack didn't say anything. Odd. He just moved out of the way and let Owen into his room. He noted that Owen also gave Jack a weird look. The lack of response was seriously out of character. Still, the less said at the moment, probably better. It was bad enough he couldn't keep his own mouth shut. He certainly didn't need Jack to start spilling deep, dark secrets now. Not that he would. Jack and secrets – two words synonymous with each other. A picture of Jack was next to the word in the dictionary. He knew this for a fact; he'd placed it there himself. His mental dictionary, sure, but it was still true.

And clearly the drugs were still screwing with his head, even if they weren't doing anything for the pain. Because that shouldn't even have occurred to him. Well, it had, in the past, but only in passing. It shouldn't be stuck at the front of his brain now, threatening to spill out the second he opened his mouth. Seriously, no more drugs. Except he needed them. He couldn't just dismiss this pain, it was too intense.

"Teaboy. You look like shit."

He cracked an eye. He put all the disdain he possessed into his expression. Talking would be a waste of time. It always was, with Owen. But the medic had to know he'd store it all for his return to work. Decaf wasn't that difficult to make, but it sure as hell sucked for a caffeine addict.

"Don't look at me like that. It's not my idea to be here. I'd much rather be chatting up some bird, or sleeping – preferably with said bird."

He rolled his eyes. Whatever. It wasn't his idea to have Owen here, either. Must be Jack's fault. Never mind, he could take it out on him, too. Withhold… no. Shit. He couldn't withhold sex. They didn't do that, not anymore. Hadn't for more than three months. And probably wouldn't ever again, despite his little emotional breakdown from earlier – and after Lisa, too.

"Don't be an ass, Owen. Just check him out. I'm not convinced the hospital did a good job. And the medication isn't working, either. He should be out cold."

"He is lying here, you know. Not deaf – or dead."

"Yeah, well you're a lucky son-of-a-bitch, Ianto Jones. I saw how hard those fuckers hit you. You must have some serious luck. Your history isn't exactly spectacular."

"I have a big target on me, yeah yeah. Whatever." Jesus, it hurt to put out even that little bit of snark.

"Not up to your usual standards, Jones. Surely you can do better than that?"

"I'm focusing on not launching from the bed to wring your scrawny neck. That better?"

"Much. Misplaced, but closer to your usual level. Now, what the fuck hurts?"

Seriously? He had to ask? Didn't the man just say he'd been there when it all happened? It wasn't even worth answering. Besides, Jack beat him to it.

"I told you, Owen. His ribs. They were x-rayed at the hospital, and they wrapped him tight, but I'm not convinced. I want you to check."

"So you said on the phone. But I asked Teaboy what hurts, not you."

"Christ. My ribs, Owen. Jesus, do I need to draw you a fucking map?"

"Now that is more like it. If you—"

"If you say one word about me—"

"You'll what? Beat me over the head? Run me out of the flat? Right now, Jones, you couldn't chase a wet sock."

"A wet sock? Really? And you say I'm not up to my usual standard." Because honestly, when would he ever chase a wet sock? Although he did work for Torchwood, so perhaps the idea shouldn't be dismissed completely out of hand.

He watched warily, now with two eyes, as Owen moved up to stand beside him, looking all business. Much preferable to the heavy-handed sarcasm.

"Can you sit up on your own? I want to check the binding."

He tried, honestly, he did. But the grunt of pain must have been louder than he thought, because Jack was across the room like all the Weevils of Cardiff were hot on his arse, and his arm was wrapped around his lower torso tight enough to take his mind off his ribs. It still hurt like a bitch to sit up, but not nearly as much as doing it himself. He smiled thinly at Jack; it was the best he could do, between the shortness of breath from the pain, and the residual embarrassment from before.

Owen wasted no time in pushing Jack out of the way, and swiftly unwrapping his ribs. Weirdly, the first breath was pain-free, as if his ribs celebrated their sudden freedom. Then the reality of the loosened binding settled, and his breathing turned shallow. He wondered if it was possible to stop completely – and not die. Because this shit hurt and he was so over it already. The thought that it would be this way for weeks… well, it didn't bear thinking about.

Owen's sure and steady touch across his ribs, and around his back was almost reassuring. At least it didn't threaten to send all his blood flow to pool in his groin, which was always a worry if Jack was close. But without the threat of a sudden and noticeable erection to take his mind off things, he noticed it all the more when probing fingers found the breaks. He'd have yelled, but his voice was frozen. He wasn't at all sure he would ever speak again. Something that would no doubt please Owen, if he could only get the fucking words out past the pain to tell him.

"Yeah. Broken."

"I told you, Owen. The x-rays—"

"Did you see these x-rays for yourself, Jack? Yes? Well, I didn't. I don't trust the NHS. It's why I…" Owen didn't bother finishing. Interesting. If he ever recovered, and after serving him a lifetime's supply of decaf, he would poke his nose where it didn't belong and find out… Oh, who was he kidding. Of course he wouldn't do that. It was an invasion of privacy, and he would never betray the trust of the team like that. Well, not now. Before didn't count.

"Like I said. Broken. The wrapping wasn't bad, but I can do better." He grabbed the bandages and reached around behind him, then looked him in the eye. "This will probably hurt like hell, but in the end, you'll thank me. They weren't tight enough before. So breathing is still not going to be fun, but it shouldn't hurt quite as much, as you won't be putting as much pressure on the breaks. Well, that's the plan, anyway. Not much else we can do for ribs." And then he moved, and wrapped, and pulled, and Jesus fuck! It hurt like he was being slammed in the ribs again with a sledgehammer, but only for a few seconds, before it stopped. Well, abated.

"Now, Jones. Obviously, you made the right call with that other med, the OxyContin, what with the possibility of your head being even more fucked up than usual, although I still don't think you are concussed. Better to be safe, though." He rummaged behind him, pulling up his bag. "Now, obviously, between the wrapping not being tight enough, and you being you, the medication prescribed wasn't doing the job. I could give you morphine right now, but I know you have the allergy to it. So you, Teaboy, are in luck. I have a fantastic little concoction here," and he waved a blue-capped syringe under his nose, "that is guaranteed to work a fuck load better and not leave you loopy. Or dead."

Not being loopy – and wasn't that a fantastic medical interpretation of a drug's effect – or dead was top of his list at that moment. Pain relief came in a distant third.

But of course, the bastard couldn't just jab him in the arm. The fucker acted all solicitous and helped him back down into the bed, then carefully rolled him over and stuck him in the arse – the arse that Jack hadn't bothered to cover, and was currently staring at like a dry man in the desert. Even if he couldn't see him properly, he could feel the stare. His arse burned, and not from the needle. And fuck, what size needle was Owen using? Large gauge knitting needles? Because it sure as fuck felt like a bloody great stick was jabbed in his flesh. And it wasn't the stick he wanted jabbed in… Hell, didn't Owen say this wouldn't make him loopy? He could feel himself falling under, and his mind was a little too open for his comfort.

He opened his mouth to bitch, but even though his mind was flailing about like a fish out of water, nothing actually came out. So maybe Owen was right. He hoped to Christ he was. He really didn't feel like spilling his secrets again, especially in front of Owen. The bastard would use them to torment him mercilessly, more so than usual.

He wondered if Jack would stay, now that Owen had checked him fully and dosed him. He didn't want the man to go. Even if he couldn't have him near without it causing his body to react dangerously, and his mind was always in turmoil, he still wanted him close. Just knowing he would be in the flat calmed him, at the same time as it made him nervous. The soft hand in his hair, however, was the last thing he focused on, as blackness finally settled.

Jack was there, and that was all that mattered. Now and in the future.


End file.
